


Rest in the Bed of my Bones/Your Love is a Prision Cell/Blood and Tears

by peanutbutterandbananasandwichs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Poetry, Sam POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:46:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanutbutterandbananasandwichs/pseuds/peanutbutterandbananasandwichs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three drabbles/poems set in S10 written from Sam's POV, the first two deal with Sam and Dean's relationship and the last with Charlie's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rest in the Bed of my Bones

Maybe when this is over, we can rest.

Maybe we can laugh and smile and joke like we used to.

Ok, not like we used to. It’s been too long. We’re not those people we used to be. I’m not sure I remember how to laugh like that.

But maybe…..maybe something….there has to be something better than this.

Better than the bed of my bones you’ve made.

 

Maybe if I’d been a better brother. A better son.

I never could tow the line. Could I?

 

Maybe if I hadn’t let you down. 

Ruby. 

Lilith.

Lucifer.

Souless.

Purgatory.

Remember?

Each of my sins, branded into my flesh like hot iron.

 

Maybe if I’d been clean. Maybe if you’d never known.

The black sulfurous oil that clogs up my veins.

 

Maybe if you’d made it clearer.

Which way to turn.

How was I supposed to know?

What you wanted of me this time?

Save you, leave you, save you, leave you.

It’s not that simple.

 

And now you say you’re going to wait.

Until the ‘end’.

But it isn’t the end.

Not for me.

Not when I have to watch you turn into the thing that tried to crack my head like a coconut. That twisted mockery of the brother I knew.

That I love.

Despite everything.

 

I hate this.

I hate the lies that sit heavy in my stomach, weighing me down. I don’t want to keep them.

Let me help you.

God please.

Just let me.

I can’t stand to see the way you look at me.

With such disdain and distrust.

I like to tell myself that it’s the Mark.

But something deep down knows you looked at me like that long for the devil’s tattoo got it’s claws into you.

 

Sometimes I wonder if I’m really still alive at all.

Or did I die in that church?

Was that when every part of me began to slip away?

Or did it start before then?

Until there was only this life that I love. That I hate.

Breathing for this empty shell.

Carving itself into pieces to keep you afloat.

 

I wished I were dead.

Some nights.

When I no longer knew what was real.

What was me.

 

And I’d die still.

If it meant you’d be free.

Then maybe you could rest.

In the bed of my bones you’ve made.


	2. Your Love is a Prison Cell

Your love is a prison cell.

These four walls built, not of stone, brick, wood or cement.

But of hopes, faith, belief and care.

The very things that once set me free.

Now bar me in.

 

Your love is chains.

Long ago we were bound by a chord, that tethered us to one another.

But stretched. Give and take.

Now I am shackled. 

My numbered sins tie my feet.

You love is a burden.

Where once it gave me strength, enough to throw the devil off my back.

Now I must carry the weight.

Of expectations, wants, desires.

None of them my own.

 

Your love is fire.

Remember when I gladly took in it’s warmth?

When did my skin begin to crack?

Crumble to ash and bone.

When did the flames stop meaning safety and start meaning fear?

 

I don’t remember.

The walls that were built, stone by stone.

Elastic turned to cold, hard iron.

My back becoming bent and stiff.

I don’t remember. 

Maybe there was never a time I didn’t flinch from your touch.

 

We give them different names of course.

Walls are for protection.

Chains are only right and just, the only way to redemption.

And it’s my duty to carry these burdens, that’s what family does.

The burns are just there to remind me, to be good.


	3. Blood and Tears

She looks so small.

Was she ever this small? In life?

In life she’d seemed to fill whatever room she entered.

With warmth and laughter and quite self-assurance.

She looks like she would weigh less than a feather.

A fragile thing, with hollow bird bones.

Easily broken.

 

But he knows that she’d feel like lead in his arms.

There’s bile rising in the back of his throat.

Bitter and acrid.

Burning.

She’ll have to burn soon.

All wrapped in white linen.

Laid out, cold as the clay.

They’ll have to pack the wound.

To stop the red bleeding through.

White for purity.

 

He stumbles forward.

Half blind.

The world has narrowed down only to her broken body, flung carelessly into the tub.

Sinking to his knees.

The weight of his body now seems too great to bare.

Hand outstretched finds cold steel.

Lifting palm to see it stained with scarlet.

What difference did it make.

Her blood was already on his hands.

Butchered with her own blade.

 

Hands reach out.

Clambering to feet once more.

He doesn’t have the strength.

He’ll find it.

For her.

Distantly he makes out some kind of low growl.

Like a caged animal on the brink of being free.

A hand on his shoulder.

For a fleeting instant he believes.

Stupidly.

That maybe there is comfort in that touch.

 

Roughly shoved aside.

Face pushed into the floor.

Into the pool of copper.

He doesn’t dare look up again.

Feels her lifted above him.

Held up in arms strong enough for the task.

He knows now.

He could never touch her.

Hands such as his were made only for wrack and ruin.

 

The room is silent now.

A cold and empty tomb.

He lifts his face.

Swiping at worthless tears.

What use are they to her now?

Blood and tears.

That’s all he has to offer.


End file.
